What She Said
There's always one more squeeze in the toothpaste.-My Mom

I realize it's a bit lacking in grammatical integrity, at best, but it's exactly what my mom said to us when we were kids, upon hearing that we were out of toothpaste.

Although it doesn't stand up to any kind of scientific logic, my mother was always right. If we rolled the tube out flat, starting at the crimped corners of the tube, and pressed and pushed and kneaded with our finger tips, there would indeed, be one more squeeze. Again. And sometimes again, some more.

The Neverending Tube. Practically magic.

Of course it wasn't really magic, but mom had a bit of an investment in our belief in a homegrown miracle of perpetual proportions, on par only with Jesus feeding the crowds with a basket of fish. ::Or was it a bucket of chicken?:: Or one peripausal mother single-crotchedly keeping Kotex financially afloat, via a mere 3- week production. So before the truth could not be squeezed from the tube, a replacement tube would appear.

As a result of recent developments at work ::Read: Shit Storms. No umbrella.:: I'm feeling much like that near-empty tube of toothpaste from my childhood. And the powers-that-be are sounding an awful lot like my mother: "There's always one more squeeze. If we roll her out flat, starting at the crimped corners of her toes, and press and push and knead her with our finger tips, there will, indeed, be one more squeeze."

I hope they realize that there's no guarantee that the product they're seeking will come from the hole they're watching, or will be of the substance they're expecting.

And So It Begins
Yesterday, says my husband: "Oh, I forgot to tell you. Cakers has a boyfriend. It's a secret. I promised not to say anything. To you."

"She told you not to tell me? Why?"

"I don't know. So don't say anything."

"How long have you known?"

"Wednesday."

Can a five year-old really be capable of breaking a mother's heart?

What am I supposed to do with the bitterness?

And the fear, for the future of our relationship?

Does she really not trust her own mother to keep a secret?

I'll keep you all posted on any breaking developments.

Oh yeah, his name is Cody.

Hair Spray
I get my hair colored every six weeks and a touchup every three weeks in between. For the three week appointment, my hairdresser applies the color to my sideburns and forehead hairline and sends me on my way, to rinse at leisure when I get home.

This system is a pain, mostly because by the time I get to the car, I look mighty strange and always get odd looks from fellow travelers on the road.

So yesterday my hairlady tells me they have a new touch-up product. Spray paint. For hair. She said it might work better than our present system, in that I could touch it up as needed at home and not have to wait for the three weeks. ::Weeks which are getting longer and longer, in direct proportion to the rate of my hair getting grayer and grayer.::

For about three seconds the idea was intriguing to me. And then I had a vision of reality. A vision of what Spray Paint For Hair, in my hands, would look like. And it went something like this:


I started laughing so hard, my hair lady had to stop cutting, so as not to accidently lop off the nearest orifice cover. My hair lady knows and loves me well. And after a few moments of contemplation of her own, she less than reluctantly agreed with my concern.

The work schedule this week will likely be blog-post/logical-thought prohibitive.
Just sayin'.
Cause I can just say that.
What I just said.

Labels: My Daughter Scares Me, With Grace My Ass